“Thanks, but that’s way too much,” the Norwegian said.
“It won’t be,” said Carver dryly. “Not in the long run. Look, I’ll pay Alix back, too… but first I’ve got to find her. We should start at the last places she’d have been seen. I know she was working at some late-night place. Do you know where it was?”
“The bierkeller? Of course-I used to give her a lift to work sometimes.”
“Fine-you can give me a lift, too. I just need a couple of minutes to get fixed up.”
Carver picked up the envelope, the gun, and the magazines and left the kitchen. Walking through the living room, he saw the picture of Lulworth Cove on the wall, the only one of his most valuable possessions that hadn’t yet been sold. He remembered talking to Alix about it. She’d been wearing his old T-shirt, curled up in the chair, her body fresh from the shower. He could happily have stood there, eyes closed, just wallowing in the thought of her, but not tonight. He had to keep moving.
In his bedroom, he opened up his closet. His gear was still hanging there, pushed over to one side to make way for Alix’s pathetically small collection of clothes. He picked out a jacket from her end of the clothing rod and held it up to his face, catching a faint trace of her scent, savoring it like a dog about to be let loose on a trail. Then, quite unexpectedly, something clicked inside his brain-an automatic, unbidden reflex that switched off the emotional, indulgent, inefficient side of his consciousness and left him suddenly cold and clearheaded.
The panic and uncertainty had gone. There was no heavy, sickening ache of fear in the pit of his stomach, just a strong sense of urgency and purpose.
He reached up to a shelf above the rod and pulled down a leather traveling bag. Then he strained his arm farther into the shelf and extracted a shoulder holster and a broad money belt. It took him barely thirty seconds to pack the bag with two plain white T-shirts and two pairs of socks and underpants, followed by one pair of jeans and a lightweight fleece, both black. Another minute was spent getting dressed in a set of clothes identical to the ones he had packed, except with a charcoal-gray, V-necked pullover instead of a fleece. He chose a pair of plain black lace-up shoes, with thick cushioned soles.
The money belt went around his waist. From the envelope he took a block of one-hundred-dollar bills and another two bearer bonds, identical to the one he had given Larsson. He also extracted two passports, one Australian, the other Swiss. They were both in different names but bore his photograph. He peeled a few of the bills off the top of the block and stuffed them in a trouser pocket, along with the Swiss cash he’d taken from the hitman at the clinic. Everything else went into the belt. Then he closed the envelope, which was still more than half full, and placed it in his bag.
He strapped on the shoulder holster. When the SIG went in, it felt entirely familiar, the holster already adjusted to fit it and him perfectly. There was a short black wool coat hanging in the closet, and he put that on last. The coat covered the holster without any apparent bulge. The spare magazines slipped right into its pockets. It was elegant enough to get him into any hotel or restaurant, but sturdy enough to keep out the cold. There was another coat exactly like it still hanging there, along with more black jeans and three apparently identical dark-blue suits. The drawers from which he’d taken the T-shirts, underwear, and tops had been equally repetitive. So this was how he had been: methodical, functional, finding something that worked and sticking to it.
Other drawers held watches, dark glasses, mobile phones, again with minimal variations. He took one of each, not needing to waste time choosing between styles, plus a couple of spare SIM cards for the phone. Then he noticed a photograph in a frame by the bed. It showed Alix by his chair in the clinic’s dayroom. She had a hopeful smile on her face. He just looked bewildered. He couldn’t remember the photo being taken. He spared it no more thought, but removed it from the frame, folded it in two, splitting himself from Alix and stuffed it in his inside coat pocket. If he wanted to find the woman, a picture would come in handy.
Larsson was waiting for him by the door of the apartment, carrying the toolbox. When he saw Carver, he said, “Hey, you look like a guy I used to know.”
“Yeah-what was he like?” asked Carver.
Larsson was deadpan. “Total bastard.”
36
Dr. Geisel had warned Carver he was a long way from being cured. There was always the possibility of a relapse. Short of that, he could expect sudden, violent changes of mood.
He was beginning to understand what the shrink had meant. It was barely a five-minute drive from his flat to the bierkeller, but as soon as the Volvo got moving, the glorious sense of confidence and self-assurance began to fade and his uneasiness returned, his guts tightening, shoulder muscles tensing. Carver took a series of long, deep breaths and slowly rotated his head, lifting his chin up, then coming around and down till it was almost resting on his chest, breathing out as his head came down, then back in as it rose again.
“You all right?” asked Larsson from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, just trying to get myself level, you know.”
“You’d better tell me what happened at the clinic.”
Carver sighed deeply as he lowered his head, eyes shut. He remained like that for a second, screwed his face up in a grimace, then turned his head toward Larsson.
“Someone tried to kill me.”
“And…?”
“And someone else will be discovering the body any time now, so just shut up, keep driving, and help me get on with finding Alix.”
Larsson brought the car to a sudden halt. He sat quite still as Carver snapped, “What the bloody hell are you doing?”
Without warning, Larsson shot out his right arm and grabbed Carver by the throat, pushing him back until he was forced against the side of the car.
Carver struggled to free himself, his body impeded by the seat belt, his feet stuck in the passenger
